


berries cherries red carnations

by Kandiszucker (whatwhy)



Category: League of Legends RPF
Genre: M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Pretentious, Sexual Repression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-15
Updated: 2019-04-15
Packaged: 2020-01-13 13:16:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18469717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatwhy/pseuds/Kandiszucker
Summary: Mads finally learns that too much self-restraint isn't good for his soul.





	berries cherries red carnations

Mads wakes from a restless sleep, but the dark and quiet and the lack of feeling in his arms make him wonder if he's not asleep still. His pajamas stick to his skin with cold sweat and his throat is parched.

The hallway does not feel any more real than his bedroom. The old familiar shapes contort, his steps echo in the silence… the kitchen light burns in his eyes as he pours himself a glass of water. Over the rushing of the tap, Mads is sure he hears a noise. He leans in closer, but it's gone.

A scream tears through the night just as Mads sets the glass on his lips. He nearly drops it on the ground. As fast as he can, he climbs the stairs. There's another scream, more desperate than the first. In Tim's room the lights are still on... Mads almost rips the door from its hinges and freezes solid at the sight.

Tim is not alone.

He is stark naked, body aglow with a delicate rose flush, and bouncing on a cock so massive that it has to hurt. His lips are bitten blue and swollen, and his oh so melancholy eyes are glossy with delirium.

“I’m so sorry,” Mads stammers, and closes the door. He runs back to his bedroom as though the devil himself was hot on his heels, and presses his head into his pillow to squeeze out the memories like atter.

Tomorrow, Joey will reprimand an unknown culprit for leaving the tap in the kitchen sink running all night.

 

If Mads ever did get rid of his memories of that night, they have now returned with twice the force. Like a barbed sting they hook into the sore flesh of his mind, flashing before Mads’ eyes every time he sees Tim. He tries to ignore it, but that only makes the onslaught worse, and soon the melody of Tim’s moans and the rhythm of his hips swirl around him like a fever dream.

Mads locks his door twice. He turns off the lights and crawls under his duvet. With a deep breath and his eyes squeezed shut and all the courage he can muster, he dips his fingers into Tartarus. He deprives himself of vision, yet his fingers explore, measure, map and chart, and though he refuses to see, he sees Tim. The shame of it all stings in his chest as he drives himself over the edge.

 

Tim comes closer and closer. During practice, he leans over Mads’ chair, and during meals, his legs keep brushing against Mads’. The harder Mads tries to convince himself that his mind is leading him astray, the more it seems as though Tim is searching for a way to merge their bodies. When Tim sits in Mads’ lap one night - a night of song, of celebration, of strong spirits - he cannot ignore it any longer, try as he might. The honey heat in the club numbs Mads’ senses, until all that is left in his mind is Tim’s weight, Tim’s warmth, and the delicious friction against the ever-tightening confines of his pants.

Tim’s candy lips part in a plea drowned out by the hammering bass. But the only commendable action, Mads reasons, is resistance, and he has already given into his depraved yearnings once. Another lapse in self-restraint will surely mark his damnation, so restrain himself he does.

 

“Admit it already,” is Tim’s playful accusation. “You want me.”

Tim is sprawled out on Mads’ bed, his shirt riding up, revealing the white lily skin of his abdomen. He has beckoned Mads to sit down facing him, and ever the people-pleaser, Mads has agreed against his better judgement.

“It’s wrong,” Mads says, righteousness and a mysterious stirring in his flesh burning equally bright flames. “We’re teammates.”

“So would you think it’s wrong if I told you that I’ve wanted you from the beginning?”

The inferno breaking loose in his soul and in his flesh drowns out any rational thought. “Well…”

“Because it’s true.” Tim’s voice is barely a whisper, and Mads leans in closely to hear it. Tim grabs his wrist, and before Mads understands what’s happening, he finds his fingers dancing over Tim’s underwear. The fabric is delicate against his skin, soft and intricately textured… Mads’ cheeks are ablaze when he realizes just what kind of underwear Tim has put on.

“No way.”

“Yes way.” Tim gets off the bed and peels away layer after layer of too much fabric, until all that covers him is a pair of white lace panties. They are so filigree that they conceal nothing; Tim might as well have presented himself on a silverleaf tray, dusted with gold, anointed with honey.

Mads lets out an oath under his breath.

Tim grabs his wrist again to place his hands on his backside, and Mads can’t help but squeeze it. He traces the pattern of the lace, until his fingers touch something hard. Out of curiosity, Mads squeezes it, drawing a sweet moan from Tim.

“I prepared myself for you, Mads… You wouldn’t let my work go to waste, would you?”

Mads shakes his head. No, he would not let it go to waste.

Tim pulls down his sweatpants and underwear with one swift motion and pushes him down onto the mattress. His erection strains against the lace as he pushes his panties aside, and Mads worries they might tear.

“Watch me,” he commands, voice gentle but firm, and Mads looks on in wonder as Tim pulls out an enormous toy, shuddering and wincing as he keeps brushing against a spot inside him - and then Tim lowers himself onto Mads.

The cherry heat robs Mads’ breath, and it tickles something inside him that makes him want to dig deeper, to hold Tim here forever so he can’t escape. Before Mads’ eyes, the boundaries between the Tim of his memories and the Tim bouncing on his cock right now blur, and Tim’s skin like freshly fallen snow aches for Mads to mark it, to make Tim his, his, his. Mads leaves crescent blood moons on Tim’s thighs, pulling him back down on his cock every time Tim lifts his hips, and moans and whimpers and please and praise pour from Tim’s lip like syrup. The air flickers around them as they lose themselves in the frenzy, and wine-drunk on Tim’s kisses Mads says something silly, and their mania peaks.

Their breaths slow down. Tim maneuvers himself into Mads’ arms, all tame now, though his cheeks are still as pink as cotton candy. His eyes flutter shut, neither quite awake nor asleep.

“I love you too, Mads,” he whispers, and the blissful smile playing around his lips makes Mads wonder how he could have ever thought of this as sin.


End file.
